


Home

by coquettish_murder_muffin



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Happy Will Graham, M/M, Summer, The South, Toddlers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 03:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10677036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coquettish_murder_muffin/pseuds/coquettish_murder_muffin
Summary: Coming home, it crashes into him, all the little things about this place he’d missed. Like family.





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be crack, oops.

It’s hotter than hell, so when it also starts to shower warm rain despite the bright shine of the sun overhead, Will decides it’s time to go home. But not before he freezes where he is, closely watching a stark white egret fly into the middle of the marsh, wings folding neatly against its sides. Soundless. Telltale ripples disturb the otherwise flat water, followed by heavier drops of rain. He puts away his gear and prepares to head back. He will fish another day. For now, he’s content to listen to the regular, repetitive calls from the smaller birds, and the loud insects that have become a permanent background noise, something he almost never notices unless he’s working in the north for a certain length of time. Coming home, it crashes into him, all the little things about this place he’d missed.

Like family.

It’s early evening when he returns, stomach tight from hunger and no fish in hand to prepare, but he can smell dinner before he even makes it to the front porch. Relieved, an easy smile forming across his face, he takes the time to kneel down and welcome the many dogs that come rushing from the side of the house. He can’t even count them, each sniffing eagerly at his face and pushing him about, until he lands on his butt in the middle of the gravel driveway, and he very quickly disappears in the mass of licking tongues and wagging tails.

Eventually the dogs cease their efforts, bored once his laughs die off, and he can pull himself to stand and admire the happy swell in his chest and the way he feels that he can _breathe_ here. But the rain is soaking his clothes and his hair is sticking to his forehead, and his husband will throw a fit now, so he walks up the steps of the French Creole-styled home and through the front door, letting it swing shut with a loud clap behind him. A satisfying noise, also announcing his presence, if his smell doesn’t first.

The kitchen comes into view and he can see Mischa swinging her feet at the round table, usually a place for morning coffee, her chubby face a little dirty and her fingers completely ignoring the napkin tucked into her shirt in favor of wiping them on her floral print dress. The plate before her once held a work of art, gourmet mac and cheese rather than the boxed stuff Will would secretly prefer to make. But the meal is ruined, or the presentation at least, from the prodding of her fork which she has abandoned in favor of her small hands. Will steps into the room and leans over her for a quick kiss pressed to her head, and she makes a fussy noise, so he smiles into her blonde hair and pulls away.

He raises a brow at the half-eaten chicken nuggets in the plate, something quite odd to see indeed, but even weirder; they are shaped like dinosaurs.

Did he really? _Store-bought?_

Mischa must have insisted.

Will glances over his shoulder, grinning, at the thin creature wiping down the counters and putting away cooking supplies. His creature, so tame and domestic here, sleepy and dressed in thin cotton. Possibly roused from a short afternoon nap with Mischa, who so often refuses to sleep alone. His hair is silver, styled short because of the unforgiving weather, but Will is expected to keep his own head of curls and suffer through the heat and humidity. He doesn’t mind it, once the house has fallen quiet, and fingers tangle and pull, directing and worshiping him. Will wouldn’t deny him that. He wouldn’t deny _himself_ that pleasure.

He crosses the distance, pressing up against his husband at the sink, arms coming around to hold him close, mouth against his neck.

“Hannibal,” he whispers.

He feels the delicious tension in Hannibal’s muscles at the utterance of his name, the quiet shiver following, but the audible sniff ruins the moment.

“You smell like fish, Will, but you haven’t brought any home.”

“Rain,” Will sighs. “I’m glad you didn’t wait to make anything, because I’m starving.”

A hum, something small and content that causes another bout of warmth to spread through him. “Mischa was hungry, and I tired. It seemed to me a pointless battle.”

“I see,” Will says, enjoying the eventual lean against him, the turn of a head. Olive-gold eyes on his, always inquisitive. “You are also incapable of telling her ‘no.’”

“So are you.”

Will kisses him then, soft. After, open-mouthed and hungry, for as long as he can get away with it until the older man pushes back into him in the beginnings of interest. But he must be patient. Will’s eyes stray to the toddler wiggling in her chair, steadily snacking, being a good girl, and he smiles against Hannibal’s cheek as they rest their foreheads together.

He stifles a snort of laughter, lest Hannibal take offense, as he is wont to do. “Chicken nuggets. From you, the greatest cook I’ve ever known. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“It was her idea,” Hannibal says, but he does preen a little at the compliment.

“No need to explain yourself,” he murmurs with another grin, kissing him again, between handfuls of words. “May I?”

“Help yourself,” Hannibal says against his skin.

Will reluctantly releases him, turning to reach for the counter. He takes a bite out of one unlucky dinosaur, playfully chomping off the head and showing it to his husband.

Eyes roll.

Chewing, he recalls the frozen comfort food being less tasty than this, and the taste itself…different.

“This isn’t chicken,” he says definitively around a mouthful of it, swallowing, and rubs his hand over his face at the gentle amused smile that twitches at the edges of Hannibal’s lips.

“I’m afraid it’s not.”

Insufferable.

Will sighs heavily, resigned, and pops the rest into his mouth. He washes it down with a glass of iced tea, finding it already filled with cubes and waiting and perhaps not for him, but sugary sweet all the same. There is always a pitcher of tea somewhere in this house, he insists on it.

Mischa slips out of her seat, throwing the impressively clean napkin to the table, and begins to wander off until Will calls to her, “Remember to wash your hands!” before the door slaps shut with a bossy, laugh-laced “No, Daddy!” and he can see her through the window, barefoot, racing dogs that are much bigger than she is. They form a protective shield around her. He doesn’t worry. She is perfectly safe.

Will looks at his husband, at the almost smirk he wears so fittingly, and cups his cheek. He knows the taste.

Human meat, sliced so careful, shaped into characters that made Mischa giggle and clap her hands together, immensely pleased. For her entertainment. To fill her tummy, give her the strength to play.  

“Who?” he asks.

“Does it matter?”

Will stares at him, at the amber in his eyes lit by the sun, hooded and delightfully tired from a weekend of parenting. Happy, happy to see Will. The same eyes that turn deadly maroon at times, during silly arguments, and completely black at night, open and welcoming while Mischa sleeps safely inside and Will holds him down against the cool grass in the field by the house and covers him in kisses and allows himself to be touched in return. Skin bared, disregarding the itching texture beneath them, too caught up in the feel of each other to notice much else. Often, they lie there, listening to the chirp of crickets and watching the fireflies and the shimmer on the lake, the reflection of the moon, and always; one another.

Home.

“No,” Will says, brushing his fingers over a mouth that would swallow him whole, if only he asked. “It doesn’t.”

 


End file.
